Ties That Bind
by Born Restless
Summary: He is a fighter. He knows what is expected of him. So he lies still, waiting for the pain to come.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Loveless or Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Because you didn't already know.  
**Warning:** This features physical abuse, the mildest of slash, and one very screwed up individual.

**Ties That Bind  
**

* * *

The leaves of memory seemed to make  
A mournful rustling in the dark

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

Soubi sometimes likes to pretend that he has forgotten. When he has Ritsuka's lithe form in his arms or when he spends a day full of carnivals, photographs and parks, he almost does but the rule of dark gods is not so easily erased, 

He can cover up the silvery slashes spelling beloved. He can hide the long pinkish strips streaking down his back. He can even veil the thrones encircling his pale neck. He can smile for Ritsuka. He can joke for Kio. He can tease Shinome-sensei. He can do anything but forget_  
_

* * *

_Why are you being punished Soubi?_

* * *

He awakes suddenly, with a sense of malaise he cannot place until he feels the leather cords wrapped tightly around his wrists and ankles. He surges forwards against his bonds unthinkingly but a well-placed smack sends him back into the bed. He tastes an infusion of blood and saliva and is disgusted. However, he knows better than to sit up and vomit across the side of the bed. He knows what is required of him. He lies complacently, body spread out in a contorted X, waiting for the pain to come. He does not know what form it will take. So he prays that it will be by knife or whip not by the usual cruel words.

He feels the deep voice before it comes to his ears. His training prevents him from shuddering.

"Hello, Soubi."

A trickle of fear runs through his blood stream. It is soon joined by shame. He should not feel afraid. He should not feel anything except maybe … happiness that his master has chosen to visit him.

"Yes?" He inquires, not sure what to say, agonizingly aware of how pitch black it is. He hears a shuffle from the other side of the room. His master is standing up, probably to close in on the kill. His muscles tense but suddenly, like the touch of a ghost, a cold hand caresses his cheek. He suppresses a whimper. His master's hands are made of ice.

"Did you miss me?" His master's voice is so dark that it reveals nothing. He does not know what the owner of the icy hand wants him to say. Desperation licks his insides. He thought he had escaped this. Worse, he had been happy to escape this.

His agreement comes out shaky, weak. His master does not like weak things. He closes his eyes, preparing for the blow.

The bed sags as his master climbs on top of him. His master's knees rest inside his thighs, his master's hands, palms pressing down on the mattress, rest by his ears. How he wishes he could see his master's face. The darkness, though, is all encompassing. He can barely make out the silvery glint of the moon watching them.

"Is that so? My brother hasn't been keeping you occupied?" There is black amusement in his master's voice subverted by a wave of furious discontent. He wonders what he said wrong, what he did wrong. He is always doing something wrong, after all.

There is a pause as he contemplates his answer. His master waits impatiently, a cat preparing to pounce on his prey.

"He does keep me busy … but I still missed you." The words fall clumsily into the silence. His speech is slow yet harried, quivering with uncertainty. It is as if he is using someone else's tongue. More creaks, his master settles back unto his knees. This way his master can utilize his long palms and capable fingers to ...-

An amused chuckle, composed of the sharpest glass, breaks the air.

"I would hate to think that you'd forgotten your master."

He shakes his head no. His hair rustles against the pillows, tangling. The cool fabric of his bandages contracts around his neck. How could he forget? His memories were carved over his skin. In the darkness, they positively throb.

Another rustle reaches his ears. His master advances forward as long fingers plunge through strips of white gauze and pull. The coverings unravel easily at his master's touch. He can almost feel his master's responding smile. A hand traces the indentations, lingering over his racing carotid artery. Unwillingly, he shudders while his scars practically scream. They remember this man's touch.

"I'm glad."

There was a time when these would have elated him beyond the confines of language. Those times are gone. He does not react.

They stay suspended in time for a second. Distantly, he wonders why he is tied up if this is all his master came to do. There must be something else. His muscles tense, just in case.

A displeasured sound erupts from his master. His master has taken notice; they are that close. He can feel his master's blessed breath against his cheek. He curses himself. Absolute submission is required from a fighter, especially from him, the supposedly perfect one. He stills himself, loosening and softening his muscles.

"But you don't seem so glad."

He knows what is coming. Or maybe not.

His master backhands him and he is confused. Usually, his master uses clean precise instruments. Flesh is too imperfect for his master's punishments, for even his master, himself.

He swallows the pain easily, compared to the lash this is nothing. His face will be bruised tomorrow, though. The explanations he will have to make …

"I am," He stutters. The cruel chuckle returns, causing more harm than any actual hit. He will do anything to make it stop.

'Oh, no you're not. Tell me this: How can you miss what you have forgotten?"

He allows himself a nearly silent whimper in the back of his throat.

It is coming.

He knows it with every inhale, exhale, every pulsation of his crushed heart.

The bed protests as his master's shifts to pick something up from off the bed table. The moon's pale face reflects off the metal, glinting between his master's invisible digits.

The shine vanishes as the blade runs across his skin. It is sharp enough to sever the cells and it separates his skin easily. Blood gushes, seeping into the sheets, seeping into his master and himself. His master gives another displeased sigh. His master hates blood, so messy, so unsanitary. It is all he can do to hold back hisses of pain, to stay still as he is tainted forever.

"I haven't forgotten anything," He bursts, the words ringing with every bit of desperation he feels. "Master," he adds. It is not an afterthought. It is a piteous attempt at reassurance.

His master leans in. Vision is imprecise, especially in this night, but touch is absolute. His master' smile rests against his cheek. It cuts him.

"That's good because my plan is coming to fruition. You need to remember everything."

He lets out a breath as his master's smile releases. Leaning back, his master gives himself room to work. The blade returns to his skin like a wayward lover. Slice.

"Just to be sure." His master explains. A subtle surprise occurs to him as he lies, strung out in pain and submission. His master has never explained anything before. With the agony knocking against his soul, he can't contemplate this. Instead, he keeps his breathing under control and reactions minimal. Movement might cause his master to make a mistake. If his master makes a mistake … the consequences would be anything but good.

As evenly spaced bursts of pain strike him, the time passes. He becomes used to it, the smooth efficient movements tearing him apart. It is nothing like the whip, the build up and the sprung release of violence. No, the knife running across his skin so evenly, each slice one increment of time, is much better. It has none of the uncertainty of when, only how much.

It is over as suddenly as it began. The blade leaves hims still smarting, smeared with liquid, ravaged. Yet his master's weight rises and disappears off the bed. Once again, he panics. What if his master leaves him like this? He would rather die than have anyone else see him.

"Master?" He sounds child-like in the dark. Another thing his master hates. His master swivels on his heal; he can hear the turn reverberate over the hard wood.

"Oh, yes," His master realizes aloud then something changes, the blackness returns, "I had forgotten." The floor lets out a creak as his master leans forward, untying his bonds with ease. Soon enough, he is free but chaffed.

A hard kiss smashes against his sweaty forehead. The sound of a rapid inhales follows almost covering up the whisper.

"Remember, _I am your master." _The moment flies by and his master departs like a thief in the night.

He finally releases the shiver he has been holding since his master's first touch. The room is frozen.

Cursing the cold that embraces his bare skin, he pads over to the bathroom. He strips off his pajama bottoms mechanically. He wastes no time just standing, alone and naked in the bathroom. Instead, He turns the shower on, propelling it towards the highest heat. He steps in but isn't satisfied.

Steaming water cannot erase the cold traces enveloping his flesh.

* * *

The wind is chilly and the sun somewhat hesitant when he picks up Ritsuka, his other master, up from school. He is wearing a particularly thick scarf to hide the furious purple bruise on his jaw. The few souls who glance at him attribute his accessory to the nippy weather. He hopes Ritsuka does the same.

He doesn't have to stand alone for long, ignoring the disapproving looks of mothers. The school bell rings out, opening the flood gates for a rush of children.

A pair of arms is around his waist before he knows what to do. After a moment, he collects himself. He applies his usual placid smile and peers down at Ritsuka's expectant eyes.

"Hello Ritsuka. Did you miss me?"

Scarlett flush dances across Ritsuka's cheek bones. Ritsuka does not meet his eyes and hides behind a veil of dark hair. Hair, the same color as his master's and just as cool to the touch. Hair, the same color as the darkness …. No, Beloved has not forgotten

* * *

_Why are you being punished Soubi?_

_Because I need to remember what I am._

* * *

When Ritsuka's eyes are elsewhere, he traces the new word carved lovingly into his skin. He could almost feel the invisible connection, almost, but when he gazes at Ritsuka, it slips through his fingers. 


End file.
